


the thing with feathers that perches in the soul

by maelidify



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-3x05, feelings are feelings, lol what is geography, the adventures of Emori and her badassery, through 3x13 anyway, who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maelidify/pseuds/maelidify
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Emori searches and fights and manipulates and punches people. (Roughly structured as 'five times Emori fails to find John Murphy and one time she succeeds'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the thing with feathers that perches in the soul

_He shakes his head. It’s slight, barely discernible, and Emori’s fist tightens on her knife but she breathes in that slight 'no', the words written clearly in his tight expression._

 

_She’d fight every single one of them. It would get her killed, but she’d do it, and maybe John could get away and make it back to the boat or the cave. Maybe he could carve out some sort of life for himself. Maybe he could find safety somewhere. But he’d met her eyes and twitched his jaw, a message for her, only for her. Not to fight, not to follow. They’re looking for her too and he’s giving her this chance, this gift._

 

 _So she honors it. Quiet in the trees, she watches him get dragged away and wonders at the quiet pull in her gut, corresponding, nauseating._  
  
  
**i. familiar places**

 

As she finally breathes again, Emori thinks of the ways to survive, of sleeping but not sleeping too much, of eating but not eating too much. Of loving, because you have to love to stay alive, but not too much. Never too much.

 

It’s also important to have a meeting place if you’re traveling with someone. In case of separation. It’s a slim hope, but John knows how to fight. It’s possible that in the past couple of hours, he fought his way out, determined to come back to her. Emori stays quiet as she travels through the trees to the cave, hiding from passing footsteps.

 

She’s honed this stealth since she was banished from her tribe at six years old (much older than most marked children, who are cast out at infants and left for hungry dogs), since she found her brother and he told her every day, looking at her like a burden and then like a means to an end and then, finally, a sister (because this is what love is out here, secondary, hard, only necessary if it helps you), that in order for them to kill you, they have to catch you. And in order to catch you, they have to hear you.

 

She tried to pass the skill on to John, but there was a reason why he was the bait and she was the surprise attacker in their operation. She understood the way silence breathed. He hadn’t been out here long enough to learn how to mimic the cadence of sticks and sand.

 

The cave feels empty when she finds it again at last, and she tries not to let hope fill her belly, which is empty anyway.

 

“John?” she breathes, quieter than a whisper. She can hear the word echo anyway, the tiniest ringing through stone and cavernous space.

 

The remains of their last campfire sit abandoned a few feet away, the shadows of the day casting the old sticks into something lifeless, flat, gray. Suddenly sick or full of something bitter in her bloodstream that she doesn’t understand, she spits at the old stones and charred wood, and then kicks at them, and then kneels, quick as a wing, and casts the ashes throughout the air in fistfuls, a noise not unlike that of a dying cat emerging from her throat.

 

When _whatever that was_ passes, she’s sitting against the wall of the cave. Her hand wrapping is half off and covered in soot, and she’s taking in deep, thirsty breaths.

 

“ _Branwada_ ," she mutters under her breath, because that _was_ incredibly foolish. He’s clearly not here, and she’s made a ruckus, and it’s time to move on.

 

It doesn’t take her long to find their boat, some of their less important belongings still stored in its corners. She starts the machine that propels it through the water and she listens to its roar, loud, angry, cutting through still water and empty air.  
  
  
**ii. other buyers**

 

Emori allows herself a few moments of sleep (not too much, not enough) and dreams of her brother. His face is glowing, unmarred. She barely recognizes him and it makes her frustrated, like there are nettles in her eyes, like she can’t see clearly. She wakes up with the taste of blood in her mouth and her first thought is anger at herself for not following John’s attackers, consequences be damned. Her second thought is to plot, to connive, to lie and steal and manipulate her way to wherever he’s being held and scold him for being captured in the first place.

 

“In this world,” he’d said, face shadowy and bitter, “when people leave, they don’t come back.”

 

And she’d said in soft response, “I did.”

 

So she will.

 

One of her tech buyers takes in travelers and collects information, so she can check in there. Her boat is already pointed in the right direction, and maybe there’s been word of where John is being taken. _Polis_ , a nasty voice whispers in her mind, but she isn’t sure, and she’ll need all the information she can get before breaking into the city, anyway.

 

The hut is a slight trek from the water, and Emori stays still in the shadows as a group of people say goodbye to a young, slender girl. Some words of their conversation drift over to her: _gona_ and _nontu_ and, more importantly, _wamplei_. The girl’s father has passed away.

 

Emori knew him from their deals; a man named Pire, stern, protective of his daughter, but not so protective as to keep the girl from trading as well, from learning how to fend off unsavory dealers. Emori knows she often falls in that latter category, but she’s never pulled a heist on this family. Call it a soft spot.

 

The visitors leave and Emori follows the girl into the house.

 

“I’m sorry about your father,” she says, cutting the silence, and the girl stiffens, turns around with a club she’s grabbed from the table poised, ready to attack.

 

“Woah, calm down,” she says, and Niylah relaxes but doesn’t let go of the makeshift weapon.

 

“What do you want?” she says. Her voice is weary, but there’s an edge to it. She’ll attack if provoked, and attack hard. Emori is sure of it. Her face is dirty and the remains of a bruise are clearly still fading from her cheekbone. “I don’t want to trade anything right now,” she adds.

 

“Just looking for information,” Emori says. Keeping the girl in her periphery vision, she walks around the work table. Items are strewn across it still; a pile of arrows, a half unfolded scroll, some woodwork figures. Candles, wrapped food, a discarded cage the right size for a small animal.

 

“That’s still a trade,” Niylah says. “I’m not interested.” She’s watching Emori carefully, suspiciously. In spite of their honest dealings, she’s undoubtedly familiar with her reputation for quick fingers. Ironic, really, considering the shape of some of her fingers.

 

Emori’s mind is running through different prices, different temptations. She could threaten the girl’s life, and she will if it comes down to it, but she’s one of her best buyers. Her father’s death probably won’t change that. She could offer her a weapon, but weapons are easy to come by. She could try to seduce her, but she’s never been any good at that.

 

So she decides to keep talking.

“Skaikru,” she says. “I’m tracking someone from Skaikru.”

 

Niylah’s face twists and she spits. “Skaikru killed my father in the massacre,” she says and there’s something familiar in her voice, something like the spirit that overtook Emori in the cave.

 

She doesn’t dwell on it but thinks, _interesting_ , and keeps her face neutral. “He stole something of mine,” she says. She runs a finger down the knife hanging from her belt, making sure Niylah sees. “I intend to take it back.” She lets that sink in and adds, “your help would not go… _unforgotten_ in our future trades.”

 

Niylah stares at her, evaluating. Then she nods curtly.

 

“I might not know anything,” she admits.

 

“He would have passed through with a group of travelers, or scouts. As their prisoner. He looks…” she trails off and almost says _not unlike you_ , because she’s suddenly noticed something in Niylah’s face that reminds her of John but she knows it’s her mind playing tricks on her, her unstable heart looking for this person it has settled on like a leaf on the water. This is why love is dangerous, she tells herself, and finishes her sentence with “pale.”

 

“Pale?” Niylah asks, raising her eyebrows.

 

“Pale. And dirty. Dark hair, big nose. A real sarcastic pain in the ass,” she adds. “He… he has tech,” she finishes lamely, but Niylah is nodding, crossing her arms.

 

“I heard of a Skaikru hostage who had tech bearing the sacred symbol,” she says. “They’re taking him to Polis, to the flame keeper. Who knows, they might trade him back to his people in return for something.” She smiles bitterly. “They’re also looking for his accomplice.”

 

“I wish them the best of luck in finding him,” Emori says softly. Their eyes meet and she begins to back out of the room. Niylah follows, step for step.

 

“His _female_ accomplice,” she shouts after her, but Emori is long gone.   

 

**iii. sky people**

 

Getting through Polis will be difficult.

She could, she thinks, drifting on the boat that night, just barrel in. Kill everyone who got in her way. Die fighting for her lover. It would be an honorable death, but it probably wouldn’t help John any.

 

She could sneak in, but she’d need a pretty big distraction to get him away from the Commander’s guards and advisers.

 

She could look for him at the Skaikru camp, in case hostage negotiations are already in effect, or try to gain some help there, assuming they aren’t.  Which they probably aren’t.

 

She recalls, however, that John doesn’t have too many friends among his own people. She remembers the story: a murder he wasn’t to blame for, two murders he _was_ to blame for. He left for a reason, and his people likely aren’t keen on his return. And, if Niylah’s experiences are any indication, the sky people aren’t feeling too friendly as of late in general.

 

The only sky people who had helped John out had been his traveling companions in the desert. And they were gone. All except…

 

She sat up, mind racing. The man John had been with, Jaha. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, but he did want John on his side. And it was possible he wanted the tech back, instead of in the hands of the Commander.

 

And, by finding him, she would find Otan as well.

 

\---

 

There are guards outside the Skaikru camp, _Arkadia_ , as they call it. And they have guns, weapons she’s never seen in person but she understands the gist of them, how they shoot fire and can kill more quickly than an arrow or a knife.

This is something she should have anticipated. She could kick herself for being so single-minded, for thinking of someone else before herself so _impractically_ . He was probably dead by now anyway. She should probably just give up, steal some food, find some tech, go back to the life she hadn’t quite _enjoyed_ but hadn’t quite _hated_ , either.

  
Worst of all, these thoughts aren’t enough to get her to move. She remains still in the shadows of the trees, but she’s too close to the camp to stay hidden for long, and sure enough, one of the guards spots her.

 

He says something into a small black box (which, admittedly, she eyes hungrily) and grips his gun, but a figure emerges from the camp before he can shoot.

 

“She’s a friend,” the figure says. It’s Jaha.

 

“She’s a grounder,” the guard responds, but he lets the other man through. Emori steps forward and eyes the guns for a moment before turning her attention to John’s former companion.

 

“Where’s my brother?” she asks first, because it doesn’t look like these people would be welcoming to a grounder, let alone one that looks like Otan.

 

The man is looking at something behind her. Perhaps the lack of someone.

 

Carefully, he says, “you’re not here just because of Otan, are you?”

 

He says it in a tone that assumes his own unflappable correctness. Emori’s never had much respect for people who believe they know everything about everyone, or much patience, so she barks out a laugh.

 

“He did attack me,” she says. “Because of you. But believe me when I say that he is one of my priorities. He’s my blood.”

 

“And your other priority?”

 

She leans against a tree. Posture is everything. Don’t let anyone know they understand you, that they can get into your head. “I was hoping you’d know something.”

 

“The last time I saw John, he was with you,” he responds.

 

“He’s in Polis, then,” she says. Damn it. She looks him in the eyes, dark, cool. “We have to get him back.”

 

“Do we? My place is here.” Jaha pauses, looking again at that place behind her. “For the time being, anyway.”

 

Anger rises in her and she greets it like a friend. “This is _your_ fault.” She pushes off from the tree, steps toward him. “If you hadn’t brainwashed Otan and attacked us…”

 

“Attacked _you_.”

 

They both pause.

 

“And,” he continues, voice steady, gaze almost gentle, “whose fault is that? Who killed Gideon and dragged John into the middle of it? Who tried to steal our technology?”

 

“You bastard,” she says lowly. This is a low, dark rage; it buzzes through her skin like a knife.

 

“I’m not saying this to shame you, Emori,” he says, putting a hand up, as though that will calm her down. “You’re very hurt and very tired. You can’t help John with all this anger and pain inside of you. You’ll break first, and then where will he be?”

 

“And what did you ever do to help John?” she counters. “Drag him across the desert? Lock him in a bunker for three months? Kill his father?”

 

She expects a reaction, at least to that last one, but all that passes over Jaha’s face is calm concern.

 

“I can help you,” he says. “I can fix you.” His gaze passes to her left hand and then back to her face. “And then I can help you help him.”

 

“If I let you brainwash me like you brainwashed  Otan?” She toys with the handle of her knife and the guard points his gun at her. Releasing it, she backs up a few steps. “This was a mistake. I should never have come here.”

 

She turns and begins her retreat to the woods. His voice follows her, though:

 

“I didn’t tell you about your brother.”

 

“I wouldn’t believe anything you had to say,” she bites back, anger clouding her logic. She’s still walking away; she won’t let this dissuade her.

 

“Otan’s gone, but not truly gone. He’s in the city of light, Emori,” Jaha calls after her. Her pace quickens and panic fills her and she doesn’t know quite why, and when she tries to block out his next words, it is unsuccessful. His voice rings through the trees nonetheless.

 

“He’s waiting for you."  
  
  
**iv.** **dark city**

 _  
_ _Otan’s gone._

 

 _He’s in the city of light_.

 

The words follow Emori all the way to Polis, and then some.

 _  
_ _He’s gone._

 

_He’s gone._

 

Gone doesn’t mean dead, Emori reminds herself, even though it probably does. Hope is a frail thing and you can’t balance your weight on it. It snaps. Hope is a dead tree. Hope is a dead tree. She almost laughs at that, wishes she could tell someone, but who is there to tell? That’s what hope is: the thought that you can speak with someone and have them speak back.

 

Hope is more dangerous than love.

 

She blends in well enough in Polis, the poor vendors and warriors and officials, everyone milling about and bumping into one another, an array of several different dialects drifting to her ears and away again. She tightens her hand covering and pushes through.

 

Night is breaking through day. This is probably why the crowd is so heavy; they are all packing up and heading to their homes, or to their leaders, or to their positions. The thought of staying in one place and serving the same leaders day after day gives Emori a headache, so she tries not to think too hard on it.

 

This is what she must do: find the Commander’s headquarters, find the fleimkappa, possibly kill the fleimkappa, make sure John’s alive, leave with John. It’s possible. It’s hard, but her life has been hard and she’s still gotten through it, and she’ll get through this, too.

 

It isn’t hard to find the Commander’s dwelling, considering how tall it is, how it takes up half the sky. A group of people tumble from its main doors and a panic rises in the street. Unsure what the panic could be about, Emori pushes through the crowd, hoping to find a way inside.

 

“You.”

 

She turns around to see one of her buyers, a man who went by the name of Midos in their dealings. She always knew that he lived in Polis, but their meetings always took place right outside the city boundaries.

 

He’s a hard man, someone quick to judge and harsh in his actions. When he pulls her aside, she wants to flee immediately, but she stands her ground.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

His voice is trembling, paranoid. Something has happened. She hasn’t seen this man so weak.

 

She tries the same trick she used with Niylah. “There’s a boy from Skaikru in the city,” she says bluntly. “Owes me something. I plan on getting it back from him.”

 

“Leave before I have you executed,” he says. “This is no time for me to deal with a thief.”

 

Oh. She remembers now; their last dealing had ended… badly. Not quite as badly as the situation with Gideon, but nearly. She bends her knees just slightly, ready to get away if need be.

 

“What’s going on?” she says and she can see the conflict play across his face but then the horn sounds, and she knows. “The Commander…”

 

“Is dead,” he says, and something plays across his face, a marriage of guilt and grief and she suddenly remembers this man’s interest in objects containing the sacred symbol and wonders, suddenly, if he was closer to the Commander than she’d initially been led to believe.

 

“Do they know it was you?” she says lowly. The man, Midos, or whatever his name actually is, sets his jaw and opens his mouth, and she has her knife out and set against his throat before he can call for help.

 

“Look, I’m sorry I cheated you out on the tech,” she mutters, noting that his eyes are strangely dead, traumatized by something, “but I need to know where the sky boy is.”

 

She should have sensed it coming, but she is taken aback when arms wrap around her middle and yank, when a knock on her jaw sends her flying. Two guards loom over her when she scrambles back up, and she slashes wildly at one while kicking the other in the groin.

 

This doesn’t detain them for long; bleeding, the first guard grabs her arm and her hand wrapping comes loose, freeing her left hand for all to see. The guard’s eyes widen and she uses the opportunity to punch him in the face, the more numb fingers of that hand barely stinging with the force of it.

 

It isn’t enough. Another group shows up, drawn to the sounds of fighting, and as she kicks and yells and slashes, she hears her former buyer murmur, “pathetic creature.”

 

She’s outnumbered. Vastly. Cursing, she scrambles to her feet again and disappears down an alleyway, certain she can outrun them, even if she can’t outfight them. She thinks of Otan and the heists they’d perform together, how often they were pitted against groups much longer than their own, how they valued stealth and speed. How sacrifices sometimes had to be made.

 

_He’s gone. He’s in the city of light. He’s waiting for you._

 

“ _Kwel,_ ” she reprimands herself. This is no time for weakness.

 

And what was walking away from Jaha, if not weakness? She runs, runs, keeps running until the city is behind her, the horn still echoing through the trees, the death of things, of so many things. 

 

Some sacrifices, she reminds herself, are inevitable. And as the horn echoes she cries out into the trees, making one sound, something angry and gutted and resolved.  
  
  
**v. some sacrifices**

She’s injured from the fight and it takes her a full day to reach Arkadia, but she makes it. She finds a tree far from the camp this time, and allows herself an hour of sleep and a pocketful of food stolen from Polis. All the things that make life what it is. Feed the body, rest the body, find someone to tumble with the body, to make the blood rush.

 

Her feelings for John are more than that, more than they should be. The love she feels for him is more than an accessory to her survival. It’s a detriment. She doesn’t care. And in her hour of sleep, she dreams of the first time they made love, awkward and sweet on the grimy floor of the cave.

 

The morning comes with a bird’s cry and Emori keeps an eye on the camp, waiting. She doesn’t have to wait long; Jaha is there, looking into the trees.

 

So she emerges, smirking darkly, hands up.

 

“We knew you’d return,” he says. She doesn’t bother to ask what he means by “we”.

 

“I want to save him,” she says, and closes her eyes before her next words. “And Otan is dead, isn’t he.”

 

His eyes are kind and unnerving. She looks into them and shudders. Something about him strikes her as fabricated, like a story, like a picture.

 

“You can see him again,” he says gently. “All you have to do is join us.”

 

The guards outside the encampment are watching him and she suddenly realizes how peaceful they look, not gripping their weapons, barely moving, even. They’re all under his control, she realizes, or under the control of whoever is controlling him. It makes her sick but she has to do this, she can’t turn back now.

 

“Join us,” he continues, “and you’ll see the city of light. You’ll be whole, pure. Like your brother is now.” Instinctively, she grabs the wrapping around her hand. For all the strife it has caused her, she can’t imagine having two symmetrical hands, the identity it would cost her. The strength she’d lose. “There are many of us,” he says, “and soon all of the sky people will be on our side.”

 

“Then what?” She very nearly spits the words out.

 

“And then,” he says, and smiles kindly, “then we take Polis.”  
  
  
**vi. red red**

 

The chip dissolves on her tongue and it feels like a revelation inside of her, coursing through her blood quietly and then loudly, loudly. And then _she’s_ in front of her, beautiful and smiling and bright red, red, red.

 

“Welcome, Emori,” she says, and Emori knows her name is ALIE, and Emori knows that she knows everything worth knowing. She knows how to keep her safe and rescue John and bring her to Otan, clean and alive and beautiful, and suddenly their past of running and hiding and stealing and killing and defending themselves begins to slip away like a bad dream, like a fish in the water.

 

( _But where does the past go when it leaves_? a part of her wonders and is shushed, quickly and violently.)

 

\---

 

Her decisions are healthy, framed by sense, by logic and pacing. John is alive; word has reached them that a sky boy is posing as fleimkappa. She has time to rest, directly outside of Arkadia, where she still isn’t allowed, and to plan with Jaha once the inner turmoil in Arkadia has drifted away.

 

“You’ll need to find out information about the new Commander,” Jaha says, and ALIE agrees.

 

“I’ll find out anything I need to,” she promises. She doesn’t know why she disliked him so much a few days ago. She doesn’t understand the distrust that once stained her. But she doesn’t have to. All she has to do is act, to find John and bring him the peace that she’s found.

 

( _But peace isn’t this easy_ , a part of her thinks. The voice is low, so low, and ALIE turns to her sharply when she thinks such thoughts, but they are as weak as a stream, barely taking up a corner of her mind. _Peace is something to fight for. Peace shouldn’t cause you to chip away at yourself, and what is left, and what is left--?_ )

  
\---

Finally, her plans to set up a food vending station are concrete. The Commander and her fleimkappa will be walking through the city today, and she can take advantage of that.

  
( _If only you had waited before. If only you had patience, strength._ )

 

And suddenly, there he is.

 

He’s alive and whole. He’s covered in scratches and walks bitterly, like he’s fighting something invisible with each step. He’s _there._

 

“Hey, stranger,” she says when he passes and when he meets her gaze with surprise she feels a rush of pain. But that can’t be true. There’s no pain, not anymore

 

( _But there are scratches on him, pain in his eyes, more bitterness than was there before, but you want to hurt whoever has hurt him—_ )

 

The pain quickly subsides, replaced by a calmness fanning over her, filling her with light. In the corner of her eye, ALIE watches, head tilted.

 

He’s surprised. “Emori,” he says, “what the hell are you doing here?”

 

And she tells him. Not the whole truth, but enough. He leaves her with instructions on where to meet him and she can tell, when he walks away, that she’s left him with hope, that dangerous thing, that most dangerous thing. He’s full on it. He’ll carry it with him until she meets him, until she convinces him to join her in the city of light.

 

And he will. She’ll find out what she needs to, and she’ll convince him to join her, and they’ll be in the light together, no more pain, no more bitterness. She watches him walk away, happiness glowing in her chest. This is warmth, this is safety. This is paradise.

 

( _This is hell, this is hell, this is hell--_ )

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh.


End file.
